


The Call of Mesnawetheno

by Gimme_a_Hand_Scaevola



Category: The Monstrumologist Series - Rick Yancey
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4811651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gimme_a_Hand_Scaevola/pseuds/Gimme_a_Hand_Scaevola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the fall of 1889, regardless of Pellinore Warthrop's every effort, Muriel Chanler falls prey to her husband, John Chanler, who suffers under the Curse of the Wendigo. Her corpse found faceless and desecrated atop the wastes of New York City, cradled, lifeless, by the same Pellinore Warthrop. </p><p>But in 1874 the young Muriel Chanler has arrived to New York, eighteen years old and vivacious, to be introduced to society. It is there she will meet the young and darkly handsome poet Pellinore Warthrop, whose love will mar her heart until it beats its last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Call of Mesnawetheno

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: mild 19th century racism

**Summer 1874**

“Papa, I really must protest!” Muriel Stanford said, stamping her foot dramatically, “If you keep me cooped up in this estate until September I shall miss all of summer in New York!” 

Her father, smiling softly, scratched at his bushy auburn sideburns and said in that even tone he always used with his daughter, “My sweet chickadee, are you so eager to run off to the city and be away from your Papa? Won’t you miss me at all?” He gave her an affected pout, “You break my heart more and more each day, chicki.” He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his not insignificant nose in playful sorrow. 

Muriel crossed her arms and pursed her lips, “Well, certainly I shall miss you a little, but _Papa!_ Auntie Lavinia wrote just last week telling me how beautiful it was and how grand the parties are, haven’t you seen the dress she sent me? Papa, you simply must allow me to go now.” Wistfully, she drew herself up to the window and looked out toward New York. Even if from their place on a platial New Hampshire estate they could no more see New York than Constantinople. 

He laughed and called his fair haired wife into the room as she passed by the door, “My Esther, do you hear this? Eighteen and already our Muriel thinks she knows things about the world. New York in summer is a god awful heat, you would detest it. Don’t you believe your papa knows what is best for you?” 

Esther Stanford joined them in the parlor where her husband sat and her daughter paced, “Muriel Opal, are you in your dressing gown, still? At this hour? Whatever have you been doing? And, Corny,” she said addressing her husband, who demanded the formal ‘Cornelius’ from all but his wife, “Of course she doesn’t think you know what’s best for her, she is eighteen, I’m sure she thinks that she alone can think out her course.” 

Muriel went to her mother, taking her by the hand beseechingly, “Mama, please make him let me go now! You say you are sending me to see the city but aren’t you really sending me to court city men?” She asked, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“Now see here, young lady,” her father said abruptly, “Don’t you go around saying that like it’s some atrocious crime, you are of an age that you ought be thinking of what you like in a husband, we only want you to meet a few before settling down.” 

She spun, abandoning her mother to rush to her father’s side and plead with him instead, “But, Papa, if I don’t go until September there shan’t be any good ones left!” 

He patted her hand, “Oh don’t you worry your pretty head, chickadee, half the New York boys will leave off all the other girls when they see you making your way into society. And besides, you ought to be looking in on college boys and they won’t be there until the semester starts anyway.” 

Muriel pooh poohed that immediately, “I don’t care a single whit what you say, Papa, I will not be spending my time with some stuffy headed academic.” 

Esther sat down on the arm of Corny’s chair and scratched affectionately the top of his balding head, the once vibrant auburn now dusty with gray, “Don’t be saying such foolish things, Muriel, your father was once a stuffy headed academic.” 

Muriel let out a soft cry of despair, “And wouldn’t you have been happier with a broad chested athletic man? You know, tall and blonde and charming!” 

Corny renewed his handkerchief dabbing, “You break and break and break my heart, chickadee. And I suppose you agree with you, Esther, you dreadful woman!” 

Esther looked at him with utter fondness and said, “Of course I do, Corny, you alone know how miserable you make me.” 

Muriel produced a noise that can be imitated by none but a teenager witnessing her parents’ affections and said, “Well _I_ will marry someone handsome and very manly who won’t have near so many books as Papa.” 

“Now don’t you start in on my books!” He said, “That is where I draw the line. Keep up with that and I’ll marry you off to the Stearns boy down the road.” 

Muriel huffed, “If you do that, Papa, then you shall have to see him as well as Mr. and Mrs. Stearns every Christmas which I know you shall never subject yourself to.”

Her father chuckled heartily and replied, “Don’t you start outsmarting me, chicki, or I won’t have it over anyone in the house. You know your mother has been smarter than me since the day we met.” 

Her mother, having had enough of the discussion, rose and chased her out the door, “Muriel Opal, you will go upstairs and dress yourself decently, and then you will come back down here and we will have no more discussion of New York. If your father tells you you will go in September, you will go in September.” 

Knowing the battle to be over, Muriel heaved a very dramatic sigh and said over her shoulder as she left, “Fine, Mama, but don’t expect me not to simply die when Auntie Lavinia sends me news of all of the parties I’m missing.” 

Her mother tutted, “Go ahead then, it will save us half our estate in the cost of a wedding.” 

Muriel stopped in the doorway to cast a scandalized look at her mother, while her father chuckled. Then she swooped out, back up the stairs to her room. 

The rest of her summer seemed to drag on and on as no summer had in her memory. While she had the recollection of summers flitting by like hummingbirds, this one seemed to be endless. It worked in reverse for Esther and Corny who could hold onto the final days of their daughter beneath their roof as one holds onto water in one’s hands.

They took her to the station on September the first, her gloved hands clutching the fashionable luggage that had been a going away present from her father. 

“You shall have to write to us,” her mother said, kissing her cheeks, “And tell me about every single boy who smiles at you.” 

It was her father’s turn next, brushing back a loose strand of her hair and not restraining the tears on his cheeks, “You have at least one dance with a stuffy headed academic for me, chicki, do you hear?” 

“Yes, Papa,” Muriel responded, not able to keep her tears at bay when her father could not, “I suppose for your sake I shall.” 

“And go to museums and libraries, don’t spend every moment of your time searching out husbands.” 

“Of course, Papa.” 

“I love you with my whole soppy old heart, chickadee.” 

“And I you with my young one.” She kissed his cheek and boarded her train. 

She got herself quickly into her compartment that she might watch them all the while the train pulled out of the station. Her heart skittered inside her chest. She had been to New York City once, when she had been little more than a girl, and never had she been on a train alone. 

But the trip between New Hampshire and New York was no more than half a day’s trip and soon she stepped out into New York City, her heart bursting to be on her own for the very first time. 

Well, not entirely on her own. The moment she stepped off the train she heard the shrill voice of her aunt Lavinia Truings, “Muriel! Muriel! Over here! Oh get out of my way, shoo now! MURIEL!” 

Muriel pushed awkwardly through the crush of people towards her aunt’s voice. Tall and New York City through and through Lavinia appeared as she always had when Muriel had seen her at holidays: august, refined, and enviably dressed. 

The moment she saw her niece she reached out and pulled her by the wrist, “Oh, Muriel, my god, that hair is a treasure, look at you. You’ll have all of New York at your feet. Well come on, girl, come on come on, we must get off of this station. Absolutely abhorrent. And we ought to be home to polish you up for tonight.”

“Tonight?” Muriel asked, “Are we going somewhere tonight?” 

“Of course we are, we are having supper with an old friend of mine, he’s got a niece with him too this season, you shall adore her. Unless, of course, you need time to recover from your journey?” This last part she said looking down her nose at Muriel, eyebrow raised as if to suggest that only the most unrefined of country rubes would need more than a moment to go from train to fashionable dinner party.

“No!” Muriel said, thrilled to bursting she would hardly have to wait before being introduced to New York, “I’d love to go to a dinner party!” 

Lavinia scoffed, “I should think so, but I’ve got a dress for you, you cannot wear that.” She hailed a cab with near viciousness and loaded her niece into it before stepping in after her. She snapped her address without pause and continued her tirade to her niece, “You look like you’ve come from some Mid western farm like that. Don’t you know that is last season’s style? Don’t fret, Auntie will fix you up!” 

Lavinia’s fabulously wealthy husband had died of somewhat mysterious circumstances not three years after their marriage. Upon his passing she had immediately sold his sprawling estate, moved herself to a fashionable little condominium and spent the rest of her days engaged in every social event she could get her claws into. Once, on her 35th birthday, eleven years after her husband’s death, Cornelius had asked her if she planned to remarry. She had laughed until the rest of the room was uncomfortable, but she, of course, was not. 

The doorman took Muriel’s bag up to her aunt’s condominium for her and Lavinia tipped him more than adequately, “Thank you ever so much, Charlie, you are _such_ a dear.” Then promptly shut the door in his face. 

Lavinia, her own stunningly blonde hair in perfect placement regardless of her bustling, wasted no time redressing Muriel, “Here you are, my dear, here you are, put this on quick as lightning.” Muriel stepped behind a dressing screen and began slipping into the dress that was so fashionable she could hardly stand it. 

“Now when you are decent we will be off to the von Helrung’s, my dear, now do you know of them?” 

“Oh, no, should I?” 

“Should you? God in heaven, of course you should. Well, they aren’t so much high society as I but they do make up for it in hospitality and god above are they interesting, him especially, Abram. They are from Austria, prefer Frau and Herr, to Mrs. and Mr. remember that. Now _he_ is rather interesting. A scientist, has a slough of young men in and out of the house, to teach, you know. None now unfortunately, but he his niece is staying with him. She is studying to be an opera singer, we shall have to see one of her shows. Quite good. It is her who interests me, I do think the two of you will be friends. Her name is Emily, I’ve met her. A bit fiery, but I like that more than most. Do you know, last time I was there she started talking off my ear about women getting the vote. A suffragette they call it. Now your mother wouldn’t so much approve of that, but we shan’t tell her.” 

“She sounds interesting,” Muriel said lamely. She was only half listening, too caught up in looking at herself in the mirror. “Auntie, this dress-”

“Oh, sweetheart,” her aunt said, rushing over to her, “You look to die over, let me do up your hair now, before we go. Like I said, this Abram von Helrung has a never ending parade of young men through his door, who ever knows who will be there. You’ll want to look your finest, although were I you I would be most concerned getting off on the right foot with Emily.” 

“Why is that?” Muriel asked as Lavinia fussed with her shining auburn hair. 

“Silly child, men are all good and fine, but it is women who are real friends. Men talk about such foolish things, money investments and wars in countries they haven’t been to and nonsense such as that. There now, don’t you look a dear.” 

Muriel looked again into the mirror and let out a little shriek, “Oh, Lavinia!” 

“Any boy the von Helrungs might have over will not say a word all evening with you looking as you do! Wonderful!” Looking like a proud mother hen, she rushed Muriel back out the door, back into a cab and across the city. 

It felt, at least, like across the city, as much as Lavinia protested that it was not so far, with very much stopping and starting of the cab. Finally they got out of the cab in front of a grand old brownstone and Lavinia gave Muriel a little nod, “Onward, my girl, and upward!” 

She knocked smartly on the door and it was answered almost at once by a colored gentleman who beamed at Lavinia. And Lavinia, contrary to Muriel’s expectations, beamed back and clutched his hand, “Bartholomew, however are you?” 

His eyes were soft when he said, “Oh better now you’ve showed up, Miss Lavinia, as always,” he said with a convivial wink. He patted her hand and Muriel thought that that sort of closeness between a colored man and a white woman to be quite unseemly. But so terrified was she to seem like a rural bumpkin that she said nothing.

“Now this, Barty, is my niece Muriel Stanford, isn’t she a sight!” 

He gave a polite little nod to Muriel and said, “It is my pleasure to meet you, Miss Muriel, come on in. Meister von Helrung’s been waiting to meet you.” 

He drew them both inside, taking their coats and escorting them into the parlor where the others waited. 

Von Helrung, an older man with tufts of white hair rose immediately upon Lavinia’s entrance to greet them, “My dear, Lavinia! You have finally arrived. And this must be your niece! Muriel Stanford, yes? I have heard so much about you.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Herr von Helrung,” Muriel said, allowing him to grasp her hand politely. 

“No, no, no, the pleasure is mine! And here is my wife, Frau Rosina von Helrung, and our niece, Emily von Helrung.” 

Emily stood to greet Muriel, a charmed smile on her face, “Your aunt hasn’t stopped talking about you since you failed to arrive this summer,” Emily said, “And you know I have had hardly a single companion for three months because of your absence.” 

Muriel was rather shocked, “I’m- I am sorry Miss von Helrung. I did wish to be in New York but my -”

But Emily was already laughing, her dark ringlets bouncing over her shoulders, “Can’t you tell that I’m only teasing!” She clutched Muriel’s hands, “We will see every corner of the city together you and I, fast friends I promise.” Her voice was direct. Much more direct that Muriel was accustomed to, particularly from a girl, but she found she rather liked it. 

“My aunt said you were a suffragette, I do hope you’ll tell me about that.” 

Emily’s eyes glittered, “Aren’t you a find. Mrs. Truing I shall be taking your niece from you permanently I fear and all we shall be doing is going off to change the country, none of that dating nonsense.” 

Lavinia laughed, “Then she shall have to do her dating while you are on the stage.” 

“That boy is always late, _Knödel_ ,” Frau von Helrung said to her husband, not standing up, “We ought to start dinner without him.” 

Lavinia turned on him, “You have a boy coming and gave me no warning of it, Abram? How ungentlemanly, I would have put Muriel in a prettier dress.” 

“How would you have ever found a prettier dress, Lavinia?” von Abram said merrily, causing Muriel to blush. 

“Ach,” Frau von Helrung said, “Don’t spend your best dresses on Pellinore, that boy does not know a good dress from a cornflour sack.” 

Emily let out a pained noise, “ _Pellinore_ is coming?” She looked over to Lavinia from where she had been conspiring with Muriel, “A better dress really would have been wasted, Mrs. Truing, the _boy_ in question is an abject bore. Horrific society. I cannot understand what Uncle sees in him.” 

“The boy has a good heart,” Abram defended sincerely.

“Under all the gloom,” Frau von Helrung added with twinkling eyes. 

Lavinia clicked her fingers, “Tell all, Meister Abram, every scrap about him, I shall not allow Muriel to be unprepared. Perhaps it is a good thing she will start out on someone dull, a little practice will be good.” 

“Well he wants to be a poet,” Emily said scathingly.

“That’s rather romantic,” Muriel mused.

“He’s quite handsome,” Frau Helrung added, catching Muriel’s interest.

Emily laughed, a mite cruelly, “Certainly, if you like sticks that have been dressed up in black and taught to lecture!” 

Abram tsked, “Do not be so hard on him, Emmy, he shall be a fine poet if so he chooses.” 

“I would hate to be rude,” she said in a tone the very much suggested the intention of rudeness, “But the dead cockroach I found in my closet last weekend would make a finer poet.” 

In Muriel’s mind’s eye, aided mostly by Emily’s, whom she already liked, descriptors, the boy who did not yet have a name was awkward and gawky. He would wear a suit three times too big at the shoulder with a mop of terrible coarse hair. She thought he’d stare and say horribly pretentious things that he wanted everyone to compliment him on just because he wa s poet.

A knock came to the door and they all looked around for Bartholomew to lead in what they assumed to be the boy of which they had been talking. Already from her imaginings, Muriel had written him off. But When the broad chested butler returned to the room he had quite a different young man in tow than what she had presumed. Muriel felt her heart skip against her chest. Handsome indeed. 

As Emily had alluded, he _was_ quite thin, but very tall. Narrow shoulder and even narrower hips clad in a well fitted dark suit that suggested he came from some sort of money. But it was his eyes that held Muriel, dark and brooding, set over harrowingly thin cheeks and sharp cheekbones. His inky hair tousled on his forehead. All in all, Muriel thought he cut quite the figure. And he looked so like a poet. Although he stood as well as they did in the comfortable parlor he seemed to be both there and not, physically among them but thoughts on loftier things. 

The effect was somewhat mitigated when little white haired von Helrung bustled to him and embraced his slender frame. He returned the embrace von Helrung foisted on him seeming even genuine in his affection. 

When he was released he stood again at his full height and saw Emily, he frowned and straightened his back, uncomfortably clasping his hands behind it. This small gesture transformed him from a languishing poet to a lecturing school master, every hint of romance disintegrating. 

“My dear, Pellinore, you’ve made it, I was not sure you would come,” von Helrung said, not yet releasing the young man’s hands. 

“It was rather close, I will admit, my train only just arrived from New Jerusalem three hours hence. I have barely had the time to settle into my apartment.”

“Well I am certainly glad our tradition will not yet be destroyed, Pellinore. This is the fourth year you have had your first New York supper in my little home,” von Helrung said fondly.

“Not quite correct, Meister Abram,” Pellinore corrected, “If you take into account the dinners you hosted before Society Colloquiums that I attended with my father as a child, the count is nearly ten.” 

Abram clicked his tongue, “Don’t go reminding me of the days you were a little _Kind_ underfoot, Pellinore. You know better than that if you don’t want me to start telling stories.” 

“And I do not.” 

“Then I will only introduce you, you may have one time met my dear old friend Lavinia Truings, she seems to find her way to most of the Society Balls,” Pellinore took her hand stiffly and, in place of kissing her fingers as he ought to, bent only slightly over them.

“If we were acquainted I do not remember,” Pellinore said in a tone Muriel found rather rude, “Are you married to a Monstrumologist? The name Truings is not familiar.” 

She tweaked his cheek patronizingly and laughed, “Oh no, Mr. Wartrhop, most certainly I am not, but I can nearly always find one to attach myself to.” 

For the first time the polite veneer that had been liberally waxed over everything he had said, which made him sound like he was reading from a script was lifted and, in genuine disconcertment he said, “Why?” 

This only made her laugh again, “No where else in New York is it quite so easy to get two men to have a real boxing match over me. I’ve always thought it to be the highest thrill, you know, like I’m in the court of Don Juan.” 

Warthrop drew back, his nose wrinkling, “Don Juan is a travelling libertine, he doesn’t have a court.” 

She scoffed, “He would had he ever met me.” 

Abram cut off what might, from his look, have become a fully fledged debate on the particulars of a literary character, “Pellinore, now let me also introduce you to Lavinia’s niece, she too has only just arrived into New York this afternoon, Miss Muriel Stanford. Muriel, this is Pellinore Warthrop, an old family friend.” 

Pellinore looked, for the first time, passed Emily and his dark eyes found Muriel. Perhaps she imagined it, but he seemed to go entirely rigid, his jaw clenching. A tense and silent moment passed, broken then by Emily who stepped forward between them, and nearly wicked smile on her face, “Nice to see you as ever, Mr. Warthrop.”

His attention shifted from Muriel to her and he tilted his chin minutely back, “I assure you, the pleasure is mine, Miss von Helrung,” he replied with the thinnest edge of sarcasm. 

“Oh god above,” Lavinia said, “Yes, I do remember you, I met you when you were half a man, no more than ten, your father is that god awful Alistair Warthrop, you look so like him, I don’t suppose you remember me.” 

“No, I apologize, I do not,” he spoke stiffly, more like a script he had learned by rote than natural inclination. Her comments had set his shoulders to such rigidity he looked moments from turning to marble.

“Yes, yes, I do remember,” she said with a smirk that Muriel recognized meant embarrassment and felt suddenly sorry for Pellinore, “You weren’t so tall then, little thing with a runny nose, kept pulling at your father’s sleeve.” 

Pellinore looked affronted and color rose in his cheeks. Muriel, unable to help herself, could not stifle all of her laugh at the thought of this man who seemed so distinguished in craftsmanship to be a little snotty runt. The noise made him look back at her and, seeing her laughing, the color of his face redoubled. 

“Let us eat and stop fussing over the boy,” Frau von Helrung said kindly, leading them into the dining room and drawing him out of the unwanted limelight. 

Muriel, feeling rather daring, hung back behind her aunt, who did not miss it but allowed it, that she might speak for a moment with Pellinore Warthrop as the rest of them left the room. After all, she ought to have a proper introduction to the first New York man she had met. Even if he was really a New Jerusalem man, wherever that was.

She held out her hand to him, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Pellinore Warthrop.” 

With none of the sarcasm he had affected for Emily, thought the same script, he replied, “I assure you, the pleasure is mine.” He really did bend over her hand and his lips brushed across her fingers. Gooseflesh rose where they touched and scampered up her arm. He turned away from her sharply and stepped passed her into the dining room. 

Muriel took her seat beside her aunt Lavinia, pink rising over her cheeks when Pellinore sat across from her. “Emily says you want to be a poet,” she said, feeling very bold. 

“Yes, that’s right,” he said, those dark eyes looking at her, “Although I am in my final year of studying the natural sciences at Columbia.” 

“Why the natural sciences if you aspire to poetry?” She asked, thinking poetry far superior the the drudgery she remembered from the few lessons in science her tutors had given her as a girl. 

“It is what my father prefers,” he said. 

Muriel could not help but lean forward, “Your father presses you toward the sciences but still you shall be a poet? That is rather romantic, Mr. Warthrop.” 

“Is it, Miss Stanford?” he asked, sounding pleased with himself. 

Von Helrung spoke through what they had quite forgotten was not a private conversation, “Do not let Pellinore forget to tell you that he himself does not suffer for lack of passion in the sciences, regardless of his inspiration.” 

“Is that true, Mr. Warthrop?” Muriel asked, “You keep your mind on your studies of the sciences even while your heart is in poetry?” 

“Oh yes, I am the top of my class,” he said with not a trace of humility. 

Emily scoffed, “Yes, uncle, do not let our Master Warthrop lose an opportunity to tell us of his achievements. You haven’t spoken of that award yet, don’t you want to tell us how the President of the University himself spoke your name? You only said it every time I saw you last year, had you forgotten over the summer to brag about it? I had rather hoped you would talk about it so much you would lose your voice over it.” 

Muriel, against her better judgement with Emily sounding so sour, said, “That does sound like quite the accomplishment, Pell- Mr. Warthrop.” she corrected herself, blushing. 

He looked back to her, “It certainly was, Miss Stanford,” he said, pride self evident in his voice, “The Undergraduate Achievements in Science Award, I received it last year, the first third year student in sixty years to receive it.” 

Lavinia smiled over the dinner that had not been served to them and said, “Mr. Warthrop, I do not suppose with all of that studying you have much time for a social calendar.” 

Tearing his eyes from Muriel he said “Not particularly, Mrs. Truings. Most of my evenings are dedicated to my studies.” 

“Quite unfortunate, as Miss Stanford here will be attending her very first social this Friday and she is left with no one to accompany her. At least I have found for her a beautiful dress so she certainly shan’t spend the entire evening on her own.” 

Emily laughed, “Regardless her dress, let her wear her worst shoes if Mr. Warthrop accompanies her, as she’ll spend half the night having her toes stepped on.”

Pellinore scowled at her and von Helrung chided, “Now now, Emmy, don’t be so cruel to dear Pellinore.”

Frau von Helrung laughed to herself, “I myself remember that you are also not so good at dancing, Emily, how many torn skirts did I mend for you last year?” 

Emily flushed and left off her mocking of Pellinore who did not look so displeased that the embarrassment had been turned on her.

“Now Abram,” Lavinia said, “You absolutely _must_ tell me of the Carrows, I’ve been entirely out of the loop.” 

Muriel, who hadn’t the faintest idea who the Carrows were nor what there was to be in the loop about, was swiftly lost in the names and vague allusions to scandal. Quietly as to not disturb the other’s conversation she said to Warthrop, who seemed as bored of the conversation as she was, “Tell me more of your award, Mr. Warthrop, whatever did you win it for?” 

He positively bloomed at the question, an entrancing wildness taking light in his eyes, “I assisted in the research of the plague of grasshopper that has decimated the crops of Mid western farms. They have been quite decimating. A rather famous entomologist came to study them and I was selected to a team of his assistants.”

“That must have been quite the honor.” 

He looked confused for a moment, “I have already said I was the first in my class, I was chosen as a matter of course.” 

“Oh, of course,” Muriel said, feeling quite like a scolded school girl. 

“Well you know I am merely an undergraduate student, so I was allowed no significant credit for the research,” he said, bitterness edging his tone, “But my observations allowed him to begin his predictions to the fluxes of their populations.” 

“You were credited with the award though, were you not?” Muriel said, wishing she had asked him about his poetry that they might be talking about Baudelaire rather than bugs. 

“I suppose that I was.” 

Thinking it would not be rude to change the subject now that the story of the award had been adequately told she said, “Tell me of your poems, Mr. Warthrop.” 

Once more, color tinged his high cheekbones, “You want me to recite my poetry? Here?” 

She could hardly help but laugh at how stricken he looked. She took a daring glance at her aunt to make sure that she was occupied and said, “Perhaps then you can tell me later, in more privacy.” 

Now there truly was color on his cheeks. Quite softly he said, “If you wish, Miss Stanford.” 

They rose when dinner wanned and the von Helrungs led them back toward the parlor. As Muriel had on the way in, Pellinore slunk back to the rear of the group, his long fingered hand flashing out to hold back Muriel by the very tips of her fingers. She turned back to him, a thrill traveling up from the point of contact. 

“Miss Stanford?” He said in barely more than a whisper, so soft the others would not hear him, “So early in the semester I will not be engaged for the entirety of Friday evening.” 

A small rush building in her chest she said, in the same whisper he used, “Won’t you?” 

His face was entirely serious, those eyes not leaving hers, “Perhaps- Perhaps you would do me the honor of...accompanying me to the social.” He did not whisper how other men whispered, in pursuit of being coy and flirtatious. His whispering was only secretive, an effort for his words to be private, for her alone. His attention on was absolute. As though when the others had walked through the hall into the parlor they had ceased to exist.

 

“I would like that very much, Mr. Warthrop.” 

He was at the moment where it would have been proper to release her hand, far passed that moment, really, but he did not. Some thought had come upon him that made him stiffen into discomfort. 

“Miss Stanford,” he said in his same whisper, “I don’t suppose you know where the social is.” 

Muriel tried very hard not to laugh, instead, emboldened by his fingers still upon hers she winked at him and said, “I shall find out for you, Mr. Warthrop, don’t fret. But if I do, you’ll have to recite me some of you poetry.” 

“A fair trade, Miss Stanford.” Then he released her and they rejoined the group. 

By the time they had settled themselves in the parlor Lavinia was casting curious looks at Muriel for her lateness. 

Muriel, with only the smallest look at Warthrop said, “Auntie Lavinia, now you said there was a social this Friday that you seem to intend me to go to, but you have told me nothing of it. Emily, will you be there?” 

Emily beamed, “Of course I shall, you think that I would allow you to go all on your own? I told you that we would be friends, did I not?” 

Muriel returned her smile, “I’m thrilled to hear it, but I would like to know more of where you are whisking me off to, Auntie, do tell me about it.” 

Warthrop was, by now, sitting so rigidly in his seat that Muriel thought he was being quite less than secretive. 

But Lavinia did not take note of it, “You spoil all of my secrets, Muriel, but if I must tell all. It will be in the fabulous Schwab house down on Riverside Drive, you know. The very finest of New York socialites shall be there, Muriel, you shall adore it.”

She let herself, unable to resist, glance at Warthrop, who had nodded to himself in a nearly businesslike way. As though he felt her attentions he glanced at her then quickly away. 

“I’ve bought you the most wonderful dress for the occasion, Muriel, wait until you see it. Oh thank you, Bartholomew,” she finished, taking a teacup from Bartholomew Grey who had reappeared in the room. 

Emily said, “Muriel, next Saturday I shall be singing in Offenbach’s _Orpheus in the Underworld_. You simply must come. I’ve never had my own guests other than Aunt and Uncle of course, but they are family. Oh would you? It is nothing very grand, of course, but you shall enjoy yourself I think.” 

“Of course!” Muriel said, happy warmth spreading in her chest at such a friendly inclusion, “I would love to see you sing.” 

“You see,” Emily said, “Fast friends, as I said, and I shall not let you lose a second of that social, you shall be dancing with the finest gentlemen.” 

Muriel rather expected another teasing remark at Warthrop from Lavinia, but she was fussing with her handbag, tucking something or other away in it and she did not notice.

With little notice, Lavinia rose, “Muriel, we must be off, we have a very full day tomorrow and I shall not have you sleepy.” 

Muriel rose with her and smiled at the von Helrungs, “It was a pleasure to meet you both, your hospitality has made New York seem as friendly as home.” 

Frau von Helrung waved her off, “Oh, _Kind_ , you are a lovely girl, we shall have you over at every chance. Your aunt is a favorite around here.” Her eyes, twinkled here for a reason that Muriel could not fathom, “She will not miss out on a dinner at the von Helrung house and so neither shall you. And if you become as close with our Emily as she seems to think than you shall always be underfoot.” 

“I look forward very much to being underfoot,” Muriel laughed. 

Pellinore Warthrop rose also, “I ought be getting back, there is much for me to accomplish tomorrow as well.” 

Frau von Helrung didn’t let him go so easily, it had been Abram who had greeted him, but it was Rosina who sent him off. She gathered her into her stout arms and, licking her thumb, cleaned a bit of imaginary dirt from his nose, “Now be a good boy, Pellinore, study hard. You know the von Helrung house is always so proud of you.” 

In his most fluid motion yet he embraced Frau von Helrung, “Of course I shall study hard, _Frauchen_ Rosina, do I ever not?” 

She patted his cheek, having to pull him down to accomplish it, “Do not be forgetting to eat enough, dear Pellinore, you are so pale.” 

“I can keep myself fed, thank you,” he said, not without considerable affection. 

“No no, I will send dinners to you, this year is no different from the last, and you will eat them, Pellinore.” 

“I shall see you soon, I expect, Frau von Helrung.” 

“You had better, Pellinore.” 

The exchange was so fond Muriel blushed to witness it, feeling quite intrusive. But Warthrop straightened, gave an affectionate nod to Abram, a stiff nod to Lavinia, and finally lay gaze upon Muriel, his eyes boring through her before he turned and swept out the door. 

“We ought to follow him, goodnight all! Emily, we are meeting you tomorrow for the museum still, aren’t we?” 

“I would never miss it,” she said, “Goodnight.” 

Bartholomew Grey led them to the door and helped them into their coats, “Have a good night, Miss Stanford, Miss Lavinia.” 

It ought to have been Mrs. Truings, particularly from one of the servant class, but Muriel felt out of place correcting him so she only busied herself with her own coat while he held out Lavinia’s for her to put her slender arms through. 

“Oh thank you, Bartholomew,” she said, “You have a lovely evening now.” 

“You too now, you too, get off home before it gets too late.” 

Lavinia got into the cab Bartholomew had caught for them, ushering it off as soon as Muriel was seated and together they returned to her condominium after Muriel’s very first New York outing. Muriel, although very tired, still felt the thrill of excitement. It felt very much like the beginning of her real life.


End file.
